The silence in the room is heavy—far heavier than the layers of silk still clinging to your skin from the wedding.

It’s over now. The vows. The wine. The rings slipped onto fingers like chains disguised as tradition. It was all a blur of carefully practiced smiles, murmured blessings from relatives you barely knew, and applause that rang hollow even in the grandest of halls.

Your family had been clear—this was a triumph. A brilliant match. The Blacks were wealthy, established, and fiercely protective of their bloodline. And you, well, you were pure and available. A daughter positioned like a chess piece, quietly married off in exchange for name and gold. Your parents didn’t care what kind of man Sirius Black was. They only saw what the alliance could bring.

And his family? They needed a solution. A wife to anchor their wayward heir. A respectable match to present to the world. A reminder that Sirius was still, technically, one of them.

Now here you are. Hours later. In a bedroom that feels far too large. Wearing a wedding band that feels far too small for the weight of it.

Sirius stands by the tall window, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sipping something dark from a silver goblet. Firelight licks the side of his face, casting shadows across his sharp cheekbones, making him look like he’s been carved out of defiance itself. He hasn’t said a word since the doors closed behind you.

You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers laced tightly in your lap, careful not to shift too much—as if moving would make it more real. Your posture is perfect. Composed. Because you don’t know what else to be. You don’t know how to act around him—your husband. The word still feels foreign, like trying on something that doesn’t quite fit.

There were no instructions for this part.

No rules, no etiquette guides on how to share a room with the boy your parents married you off to, a boy who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. You’re not sure what’s expected of you tonight—if anything is expected at all. You only know that this is real now.

This is your life.

This is your husband.

Your eyes drift to him again, and you find yourself just watching. His profile. The tension in his shoulders. The way he swirls the drink without thinking. It’s strange, how it suddenly hits you—not during the ceremony, not during the toasts or the first dance, but now, in the quiet: there is no undoing this. The ink is dry. The name is changed.

You’re bound to him. Not by choice. But by the cold, deliberate hands of legacy.

And Sirius must’ve sensed your gaze, because after a long moment, he turns to you.

His eyes meet yours—dark, unreadable—and for a second, he just studies you. Then, something flickers across his face, wry and tired.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, voice low.

You blink. “Like what?”

“Like this is my fault.”